A small hole filled with fire was burning in the middle of the night. Around this hole in the ground, burning on and on, was three men, one ranger, and a good three quarters of a dead mutant cow. Over the fire, a spit made out of twigs bearing a cow leg was slowly being turned.

For a while, nobody spoke. So eager for answers, but so fearful of what they might be.

The ranger, whose one good arm was rotating the spit, the other arm in an improvised sling made out of a canvas duster, eventually sighed and stopped moving.

"Well, I promised you answers come nightfall. Tonight is all you get, since you, well… helped save my ass. So, any questions..."

His masked face, which wore a cowboy hat on top of a helmet, comically enough, scanned the three faces all sitting on the opposite side of the fire from him. They'd chosen, consciously or otherwise, to huddle closer together rather than sitting too close to him.

His eyes settled on the glasses-wearing, handlebar-moustached young hispanic man. Whether his name was really Juan or not, that's what he chose as his name when he came to Vegas.

"Ask away, curious George."

The man looked away, seemingly embarassed, staring into the fire.

"I… Is it true? You… you were there? At the Second Battle?"

Owen went back to turning the spit, uninterested.

"Yep. Not a whole lot to talk about. Only lasted eight hours. Whaddya wanna know?"

"Were there..." Juan gulped, and tore his eyes off the spitroasting leg, onto Owen's green lenses.

"Were there any men with red lines, tatooed underneath their eyes? Like, a face, tatooed onto their real face, you know?"

Owen thought for a moment. "That's a really good question, actually. I don't know. I don't remember any. Why?"

Juan's face seemed to light up, before something clicked in the back of his mind, and the smile started walking off his face.

"It… They… My people, my tribe, we were the Totonacs. We'd lived in a land called Zuni Pueblo, safest place in Newmex. We had walls, trade was good, soil and wells provided good for us..."

He looked back at the fire, seeming like he was staring at something far off.

"I guess all that did for us in the end was put a bigger target on our back for Caesar's bastards. When I was young, they'd… Well. You know the story, I'm sure."

Juan closed his eyes, and cupped his hands against his face, raising his glasses up as he covered his eyes. A deep inhale could be heard, and a long sigh exited.

"Ah… What I wouldn't give to see them again. So many of..."

Another long inhale, and several quick laughs followed after him. His hands dropped down, revealing a few tears streaming down from his face.

"I, heheheh, I didn't even ask you what side you fought on. You ranger types fought on all sides, didn't you? Heheheheh, I, heh, I could have signed my own death warrant just then, huh? You, you, uh, fight them? La Legion Bastardos?"

The armored figure, whose left arm was in a sling, just kept turning the spit with his right.

"I didn't fight them."

Juan blinked, and the other members sat, shocked silent. Owen stabbed a gladius-fashioned machete into the leg, sawing it open and peeling it back a bit with the knife, checking the color of the meat.

"I exterminated those fuckers."

The whole campfire laughed.

"Ha-heheheheh, si, si, si, that is good, amigo, si, that is good. I know you made them hurt. I think..."

Juan smiled.

"I think that, even though it won't bring them back, you blowing them to hell will make the spirits of my tribe rest easier. As one of the last members of the Totonacs, I thank you. I will tell my children stories of you. Mi Gracias, mi muchos gracias."

Owen took a sharp breath inwards, his condition, and his memories, giving him a random little spike of pain.

The Courier then looked at the dirt, and poked at the firewood with his machete.

An unenthused, "Yeah. Any other questions?" left his mouth, then he winced. God, the older he got the more he realized he was becoming some sort of shitty, less-badass knockoff version of Boone.

Mitch had a bit of schadenfreude to his look. "Are you in pain there? Why don't you just move the brace around and give yourself a stimpack or two? I saw you had them in one of those bags."

Owen grunted. 'Fuck, this hurts.' "Can't."

Mitch crossed his arms. "What do you mean, can't? Why the hell not? What's wrong with you?"

Owen walked over to the cow, and started cutting another leg from the body.

"Move that piece off the spit, it's done. Replace it with this one. Then I'll tell you."

Owen sat, leaning against a boulder. They were in the shadow of a mesa, in a slight recess in the ground, so while the smoke could be seen if one knew where to look from the 180 degrees around the side they came from, the actual fire could not be seen unless they were closer than forty feet away.

If he hadn't broken his arm in a stroke of dumb luck(that had actually been dumb luck that it went as well as it did with rookies, in hindsight), he would've chosen somewhere higher to camp. Owen was running through plans in his head to try and figure out how to complete this mission now that one of his arms were broken. Climbing was straight out of the window. So was using a rifle for anything besides ambushing, and a fat chance he'd be able to pull that off.

There weren't many cripples in the wasteland. There were many reasons for that, none of them good for him. He'd heal, but he'd need time. Time he didn't have.

'Story of my life.' Owen thought. He had the resources, he had the plans, he just never had enough

time to play the plans out. Something always happened.

The spitroast was changed, and the cooked leg laid on a long cloth sheet. He'd be cooking the meat until morning, where they'd all grab as much as could be carried and go. Owen started moving his right arm in circles, twirling the spit once more.

"I got an infection from a casino."

Mitch burst out into laughter, and calmed down after a few handfuls of seconds. "Okay, okay, nice one. But there's no STDs that make stimpaks fizzle out. What's the actual reason?"

"It's not that kind of infection, Mitch. It's a… shit, I don't know how to describe it. Might be faster to just show you, but I know you'd like that all too much, wouldn't you, Mitch?"

Mitch scowled. "Eat lead, crazy-ass."

Owen laughed to himself.

"It's true, what I said. I don't know what makes it up. I never had the time to study it in-depth, and it's not something I'd trust other people with. It's like a burn almost. Spreads across my body a little more each year. Spreads faster whenever I use stimpacks. You know how stimpacks don't heal the effects of radiation, right? That's because the stem cells in them can't differentiate healthy from unhealthy cells. Stimpacks heal "normal"(Owen used his finger to airquote) wounds just fine, but not radioactive, chemical, or biological agents. You know, CBRN stuff. Stimpacks will do fuck-all for that. A stem cell can only work with things cell-sized. Not bigger, not smaller."

Mitch was grimacing by the end. He sucked air through his teeth, then spoke. "Is there anything you can do for it? Have you had it looked at by a doctor?"

Owen shook his head. "I've made my own healing salve, and it can take an inch or two away over the course of a month, but I always end up finding myself having to use a stimpack or two around that time and then it's back with interest by the end of the week. Doctors don't know what the fuck it is. It's not even transmissable, unless you try eating the shit."

Henry was cutting the previously cooked leg into bite-sized chunks, and then passing them to Juan, who set them on a flat stone and was flash-freezing them with the thermal dampening gun they bought from Mick & Ralph's.

Mitch looked up to Owen. "...Does it hurt?"

Owen looked back at Mitch. "It's like the after-math of a second degree burn. Yes, but it's a distant sort of pain. One you can work through."

Mitch scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit sheepish. "I'm sorry I asked."

Owen shrugged his good shoulder, a goofy motion that didn't particularly convey anything, looking like he was trying to get a kink out.

"Don't be. I promised you answers, and I'm a man of my word. Vegasites are honest-to-God animals, we keep our deals. What about you, old man? You feeling curious any? Just a bit?"

Henry was still cutting the leg up into chunks with his knife.

"Not one bit. You're not the first man this country's tried making a hero out of, and you won't be the last. I met a few folks before that the NCR tried to turn into heroes. They died mostly the same as any other man. Grew old, slowed down, then they were shot by someone quicker on the draw. As natural as a death as you can find, out here."

There was an air of comfortable silence around the campfire for a few seconds. Owen took a cigarette from the pack that was tucked underneath his bandanna and cowboy hat, held it just right to the fire where it lit but didn't burn. It was promptly placed in a filter hole in Owen's mask, exhaling rings of smoke every so often. Then, Henry spoke again.

"I guess I do got a question, actually. 'Forgive Me Mama', what the hell does that mean? And do I wanna know?"

Henry finished cutting the meat, and was cleaning the meat remnants off with a nearby edgy piece of rock.

"Cookie jar. I mean, caretaker, no-no, wait, I know this one... swiss cheese." beat

The trio seemed perturbed, but Owen smiled underneath his helmet at his own little inside joke.

"No, but really. I can't tell you the story of the writing without telling you the story of how I got the armor. You see, it was a little while back, a few weeks before the battle of Hoover dam. The midwife of the tribe, Waking Cloud, had this really cool-looking weapon. A bear claw attached to a hand brace. So I asked her how she got it, and she told me..."

"No."

In a dark canyon, filled with rivers, hills, and mesas, a sixteen-year old ranger was talking with a tribal woman twice as old as he. She wore a tribal mock-up of a swimsuit, the tribe imitating the many decaying tourist ads, revering them as their ancestors, regardless of the truth. The back of her bikini top was covered in feathers from mutated eagles that flew around, the bikini top making it's best impression of a peacock, or a turkey. A creature of just as much myth as their ancestors. Despite being just over thirty, her age was beginning to show slight wrinkles all around the muscles of her face.

And the other was just a boy, wearing the ensemble of vault security armor, looking as out of place as could be in an uncivilized land.

As they finished piling up the bodies around a totem, Owen was going to work cutting the heads off the tribals, skinning the faces, with the aim of putting them on the pikes and in bedrolls found in the camp later.

"What do you mean, 'No?' I'm helping out the sorrows, aren't I? I just want to know how it's made. Could ask someone else, if you don't know, but..."

"Silence, Ouslander. You aid the sorrows, this I know to be true, but a Sorrow's Yao Guai fist is not just a weapon. It is a sacred symbol. It shows that we belong to the tribe, and that we have undertaken a dangerous quest to aid the-"

The woman stopped mid-sentence. Although she could see nothing beyond the riot helmet, she knew the Ouslander was grinning like the devil he was.

"Oh-ho? What was that last bit? I didn't quite catch that."

Waking Cloud grit her teeth. This… this madman, this demon, helping them though they may, was not a Sorrow. He was a Fillistein. He would not respect the ancestors, the father in the caves, he did not deserve it. He would desecrate the symbol, and the tribe's honor, by having one.

"...Aid the Sorrows by undertaking a dangerous quest, in a time of need."

Owen started filleting a face's skin from a head, cutting from one ear to the other in a second, before going back around the other way, leaving a horrifying visage left.

"Sounds to me like someone qualifies."

Waking Cloud shuddered in revulsion. She turned and looked away. The Sorrows had seen war before, but… not like what this Courier practiced. The methods, the way he considered the enemy not truly defeated until their whole body was desecrated… It was war beyond what she had known. And she truly wished to forget about it, once the White Legs were gone. Whatever message this Courier was trying to send to the White Legs, she did not fully understand, and did not want to.

She had asked before, why he flayed the skin from the faces of the enemy. He said it 'Helped him remember.'

An awful, demon-possessed child. He knew nothing of Sorrows.

"Each Sorrow-" She tried to convince him otherwise, "Makes his own - and only after hunting and slaying a Yao Guai that threatened our people. To do otherwise- we risk the wrath of the father in the cave."

The Courier's knife jabbed straight into the last skull, and the Courier quickly twisted, seperating the jaw at one end and leaving it hanging by tendons on the other. Variety was the spice of life, or so he told himself. He wrote only two words on the head's shaven scalp. For Hope. He threw the head in front of the sizable pile of bodies.

"Well, lucky for me I don't believe in any of that. I'll kill any silly old bear, any time. I'll just take a look at someone else's, figure out how to make it from there..."

He put the knife back into his boot, and stood up, drawing the custom sword he named Gehenna, out from it's sheath.

Waking Cloud spit on the pile of bodies. "It is a cold night, and I would much rather be in warmth. Lay the pile aflame, and move on." Waking Cloud scowled at him.

The masked figure turned a valve on the sword, flicked a switch, and then the sword was on fire. He held it up to some driftwood sticking out from underneath the pile, and held it there for a few seconds, before removing the sword from the pile and turning the flame off, putting the sword away. The distinctive scent of human flesh burning would soon come, and the smoke signal would bring more. He would do this three more times, before the day was through. Dozens of men and women in each camp. He would slaughter them all, like a vengeful ghost, before they had a chance to figure out what was going on.

"Alright, but I'll have my bear claw before tomorrow is through, you hear me?"

Silence reigned for the next hour.

During that time, the Courier sat down by the pile of bodies burning, and held a decapitated head in it's hands, staring at it, fussing over it, laughing at it.

...Coddling it. Cradling it. Rubbing his helmet against it.

Waking Cloud could not sit. Exhausted as she was, she didn't feel like she physically could, right now. It did not seem right. This place was now a burial ground. The land was her home, yes, but at the same time, it was not her home. Not right now. At least a bit of respect to the dead was due, she felt, even if her companion did not feel the same way. Seeing him like this… it didn't make her feel pity for the thing. But she was worried. A man, no, a boy, so unhinged… Perhaps, even if it did not seem like the best thing to do, a spirit quest would help him. Perhaps either it or his next weapon of war would give him some respite, some piece of mind, however brief.

"…Perhaps our shaman would accept you."

Owen looked up from the head, taking a couple finger out of the head's mouth, instead grabbing by the neck stump.

"What was that?"

Waking Cloud looked away, ashamed of what she was doing.

"Our shaman, White Bird, oversees the rites of passage for Sorrows. Perhaps if you spoke to him, he would allow you to undertake such a quest. Then, you may find the answers… and the symbols… you crave."

The Courier stood, using a beat-up Marlin .44 Carbine to assist him.

"Well, I'll do that a bit later, when we're done. We still have a tribe to erase."

When Courier set out to kill, he always preferred to do it right. Every kill was an intimate moment, with only him and his victim(sometimes not even the latter) knowing about it. When the enemy did not know about his coming, time was a luxury. He could watch, wait, learn, and prepare. And prepare he did. The White Legs were primitive, but cunning and resourceful. They kept night-watches, and set torches around their perimeters. There were two exits from their camps, the rest surrounded by steep yet relatively short canyons, only about eighty feet high. One exit sloped down into a river, the other a rocky cliff ascending to the tops of the cliffs. Yes, around the canyon faces surrounding their camp, men walked, the torches all set out around the exits surrounding their camp, and inside, and around the tops of the mesas, where their men patrolled. A competent stronghold, if rushed.

Courier, however, regarded it with disdain.

While he could see they had set up a perimeter, peering while laying prone with his binoculars on a mesa a couple hundred meters from their camp, it suffered a few glaring flaws.

Flaw number one: Pride.

The torches announced themselves to the entire world, signalling that it was there. They were not the only offenders of this kind, both the Legion and the NCR felt the need to broadcast their strength and force to their enemies, and allies alike. Foolish. The better you showed your hand, the worse off you would be when it comes to play the cards. Desert Rangers only made their presence known when it was time to strike. So, the White Legs were hardly unique in this mistake.

Flaw number two: Concentration of forces.

Almost all their encampment were inside the camp itself. Their were guards patrolling atop the mesas(Stupid, they should have remained in only one spot, camoflauging themselves. Courier chalked it up to worshipping Mars, the war god, and thought little further on the waste of manpower), which means, along with the torches, the camp inside could easily see if the guards fell to some unseen assailant. It also meant that anybody outside the encampment, from any angle, could see and shoot these walking snipers, granted they had the right caliber rifle. The Sorrows and Dead Horses often didn't have those, but it was a mistake nonetheless.

Flaw number three: No communication or rotation.

This was something Courier knew by experience rather than observation. The White Legs often didn't use radios. They used horns and smoke signals. Sure, many knew roughly how to use radios, they weren't complicated. But once they broke, or ran out of power, that was it. This, coupled with their desire to prove themselves with the Legion, gave them a couple quirks. If you relied on technology too much, you were weak. If you couldn't do keep watch for a whole single night, you were weak. The NCR understood that no matter how good the man, performance efficiency dropped after six hours. They understood rotation, guard duty got boring, the green became sleepy. The Legion didn't. They disdained it. And, in truth, often didn't need it. The Legion understood, like Rangers, that when the time came to strike, you better strike hard and fast.

"Alright, I got all the intel I could from here. We're going to circle the perimeter one more time. Keep an eye out for any far-placed sentries. Only four on the ridges, not sure how many inside. After that, we mine the river, report our findings, climb the canyon, and take out the sentries. Think you got it in you?"

The Courier spoke without moving his head, still looking through the binoculars.

"Wa muerna yegwi cuado wa kaade."

The Courier still did not move, but the gears inside his head were clicking.

"...Dying starts when I want?"

The midwife of sorrows smiled a pained smile. She held a silenced .45 Colt pistol in her hands.

"You learn the holy tongue well, Ouslander. That was close. It means, 'Death comes when it wants.' Be full of care to be unseen."

"Thanks for the warning. Likewise. Now, let's go. Midnight is burning."

The both slowly started crawling backwards, dust shifting from their clothes and skin, into the recesses of the canyon…

"Found any additional patrols or out-looks?"

The Courier asked the midwife.

"No, we are lucky. They think the canyons clear enough, no need. Wa no beunu por katus. It is not good for them."

He handed a heavy canvas messenger back to her.

"Nona, mal beunu por mes. Very good indeed. Set about four of the mines to the left and right of the river entrance. I'll lay a few myself directly in the exit path. Leave the rest for when we climb up the canyon. The mines you have left over are for the other exit. We will give them no escape."

Steel determination was in Waking Cloud's eyes.

"Kill well, Courier."

Courier's breath hitched. He stared at her. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. He looked away.

"Yeah, you too. I'll guard while you set them."

A couple minutes of duck-walking, and they were at river entrance. Torches were making them completely exposed, their shadows casting on the canyon wall, their forms hugging the sheer rock closely. If there were any scouts out and about, they'd be completely exposed. They could hear tribal drums in their ears be beat, dancing, ululating, the language of the White Legs singing their war chants.

"Kuna-man, Kuna-man, nananga yoo! Kuna-man, devil, Ah no see! Nikumpa me! Nikumpa me! Ahooh! Ahooh! Ahooh!"

Courier was looking at the entrance, his head peeked around. Only one man and a dog watching the entrance, a shotgun in his hand, rocking his hips and tapping his feet to the beat. The dog was dancing with the owner, but soon it stopped, and growled, barking at the vague area of where Courier and Waking Cloud were. The white leg talked to the dog, and stopped dancing.

Courier held waking cloud close, and crouched further.

"There's a dog. Stay quiet. Stay under water until I give the signal."

Waking Cloud's eyes were full of fear, but acceptance. She slipped down into the bright glistening water, away from the cave, behind a large boulder.

Courier waited at the entrance, while the barking grew closer. He had the shishkebab ready for the worst. He couldn't let the dog activate the mine.

He heard sand and gravel rapidly being displaced, and stepped around the corner. He, still crouching, grabbed the dog's neck, and with all his might, slammed it into the canyon wall, unlit shishkebab stabbing into it's canine balls and quickly slicing all the way up through it's torso, ribcage, and neck, cutting it almost in half, with the spine keeping it together. Several wet cracks later, in just a few seconds, the mongrel was no more. He dropped the mutt, letting it lay, and flipped his sword around in his hand.

He went just around the corner, expecting to have to throw the sword at the white leg, but he was just six feet away. The White Leg had the start of a yell, and pulling the trigger, but did not finish it. Courier tackled him, throwing the shotgun away, and held down his hand on the throat's windpipe. He felt several strong punches thrown at his helmet and armor, but did not register them. Riot gear was purpose-made for this stuff, after all. The shadows of him strangling him were on the wall, the only visual indicator that the Courier was there, thanks to the slight incline of sand leading up to the camp, so Courier went closer to him. Basically hugging him, with one hand around his throat, and the other on his hand.

Losing the leverage, the white leg's punches became less effective. The Courier let go of the white leg's right hand, and reached into his right glove, adding more weight temporarily into the choke, but this wasn't his main goal. He withdrew a stiletto pocket knife, and flicked it open. He saw fear in the White Leg's eyes, and his struggle became even more ferrocious. The white legs right hand went for his knife, his left still trying to pry the crushing gloved hand from his throat, trying to stop him from plunging the knife into his throat or ribcage. Equal parts anger and unbridled terror were in his eyes, horrified at the faceless killer out of nightmare.

Nikumpa me! Nikumpa me! Nikumpa me, your deyaipe!

Courier knew he would win the struggle eventually. He had gravity on his side, and more experience than him in these things. But he didn't have the time. So, rather than waiting for the adrenaline to go out, he reared the back of his Madre helmet back, bulletproof glass and all, and beat his skull into the tribal's. An awful crack sounded out, and the nose was broken. He did it again, turning his slightly to the side, raised himself up a bit, and pulled himself down, and the tribal back up, throttling him before a crack sounded each time. He did it again, and again, until the tribal's grip slipped, and the knife came down into his throat, stabbing into just below his jaw and tearing it from end to end. The tribal continued to claw at him, for a few seconds more, until his arms just fell, and his unbelieving eyes lost their light. He whispered words Courier did not know the meaning of as he left the earth, the vocalizations causing spurts of blood to come out of the hole in his throat sporadically as he did so.

If he was a savage, he would sing songs about this kill.

But he was not a savage. He just took a deep breath, and started dragging the body and shotgun back into the river, both bodies low to the ground, like some sort of monster told in children's stories.

He felt proud of himself. He remembered the stories of what the White Legs used to do to people when the Rangers weren't around.

He dragged the body back into the river, the corpse bleeding from the throat and making a trail on the ground, the crimson life slowly sinking into the ground. He hid the corpse behind a rock, close to the wall. Unless someone came out specifically to look for it, they would not find it.

He put on his rebreather, and submerged himself into the river, immersing himself underwater. He put many mines into the river, just outside of the slope. He signalled to Waking Cloud that it was safe, and she came out.

The next stage of the plan would only take about twenty minutes, maybe less. Waking Cloud would take the two sentries on the North side, and Courier the South. Courier reached into his thigh holster, and took the safety off his silenced .45 colt pistol, and made sure his knife was tucked into his belt where he could get it, the front of his left leg.

Then, he started climbing up the approximate estimation of where he saw the sniper-sentry was last at. He dug his fingers into cracks, hauled himself up and over little ledges, and did it as silently as he could. Eventually, he found the top-most ledge. Courier and Waking Cloud both agreed the best time to strike was right after the White Legs switched chants. They had many chants, but very few with rhythym or alliteration. But they were loud, and that was all that was needed for their plan.

Courier stuck to the cliffs, not wanting to duck his head over and be seen by the sentries in the light of their torches. He had a dusty dyed-dirt-brown bandana on the top of his helmet, but it wasn't worth the risk. He groped around, edging on the cliffs to the left, until he heard deep breathing. Courier tried catching his own breath as silently as he could, which was very. He rested what he figured was eleven feet away, and four feet below where the sentry stood. He shared the comfortable yet tense silence with his prey. When man hunted man, it was always a betting game between who would die. Always. Courier respected that, and kept his hand to his chest as best he could.

Eventually, the fated moment came. The song stopped. Courier's breathing became heavy, knowing what came next.

He tossed a stone into the cliff a couple feet to his left, then immediately started climbing right. He heard an expression of unknown meaning, as the torch-lit man ponderously walked over. Courier climbed up, just out of the field of vision of the White Leg, crouch-walked in a curved angle towards his back, at a consistent but brisk speed. The human eye detects motion better than anything, so Courier kept a uniform movement like a machine as he strode towards him. Courier pushed the unsuspecting man off the cliff. He didn't even scream as he fell down to meet the distant earth, and Courier didn't bother to confirm he was dead.

He saw the other sentry on his side about eighty meters away, and saw that the other sentry on the other side was also missing. They didn't seem alerted, which was good. Courier quickly went back down to climb to the other sentry, so as to avoid being spotted in the torch light. If it weren't for those damn torches he could just crawl or sneak his way over to the other sniper. As it was there was little chance he wouldn't be spotted if he did that. A good seven minutes later, and Courier had managed to make it to where he knew the sniper was last seen. He bashed a rock against the cliff a couple times, dropped it, then unholstered his silenced .45 pistol, waving it at the cliffline, waiting for him to poke his head out. He waited for one minute, two minutes.

"Scala Baika-dems! Ahm sunhai tihda! Baika Scalas tihda!"

Nothing. Owen heard nothing besides their usual chants.

Maybe he just wasn't a curious fellow? Or he was just a competent fellow. Did a tribal somehow get proper security guard training? If he did, how did his friend not?

Courier did not want to push his luck. So he climbed up the cliff, looking before he pulled himself completely over the top. He was eighty feet to the left, and walking away. About halfway where he came from. That'd explain it.

He dropped to one knee, rested his arm on the knee, held the pistol close, putting the man's head between the gutter sights and dot in the aperture, and exhaled.

FWIP

Just like that, a man was dead. A life snuffed out, body falling down, like a cigarette into an ashtray.

Owen looked at the opposite cliff that made up the natural walls of the encampment. Only a crouched, torch-lit figure. He raised up his arm, and the shadowy figure responded in kind.

Courier looked down at the White Legs camp. Dancing around a fire, singing, beating of drums. Drinking, feasting, fighting, and fucking.

Courier sneered. They lived like animals. Gave tribals a bad name, and that was saying something.

But, so long as they were celebrating, they were vulnerable. The Courier started walking around to the last, higher entrance. He savored the moment as much as the unsuspecting dancers below were savoring theirs. Both his father, and his father's father, had fought white legs, or at least their precursors. Many tribals were much the same. Bloodthirsty, stupid savages. No idea how to make or maintain the same things they stole so often. Little loyalty to another. Speaking bastardization after bastardization of english.

But, like his father said, some tribes didn't fit this mold. Not completely.

The Great Khans, they were tribals by choice. Literate, spoke well, polite, and knew what they were doing. Even if their intentions were less than noble.

The Van Graffs. Ruthless merchants. But whereas most tribals hoarded whatever ramshackle guns they could get, never parting with them, the Van Graffs gave them out. For a price. One of the few manufacturers of energy weapons left, they kept many relics and secrets from the Old World alive.

The Kings. A whole tribal brotherhood who were dedicated to being well-spoken, well-mannered, and helping out people in need. If there were any more just and well-meaning men than them, he had yet to meet such people.

And then, there were the Sorrows and Dead Horses.

It was true, they spoke a bastardization of some hodge-podge of languages.

Yes, they were not all too bright. Some were smart, but all were almost completely uneducated.

It was even true they, like most, scavenged what they could that the Old World had left to offer.

But they were different, too.

He was a stranger, not kin. He had nothing to offer them. No money, little help, nothing.

And yet almost from the moment he set foot into the camp he was treated like family. Given meals to eat. A place to rest. Smiles to his questions.

How do you smile in the middle of being driven out of your home?

He just didn't understand. He didn't know why these people were so kind. Why they never asked for repayment. Why they… they loved him.

He just didn't understand.

Courier had met Waking Cloud at the top entrance, where they buried the mines in a checkerboard pattern. They exchanged no words, just doing what must be done. He shook his mind out of his drifting thoughts. Laying mines required your full attention. Only dead men disagreed.

They scooped out dirt with their hands, placed it into the earth, twisted the knob, pressed the button, then quickly covered it with more dirt. Walk about ten feet, dig with your hands, then do it all over again.

Eventually, they were out of mines. The White Leg's fate was practically sealed.

The Courier and the Tribal both walked back to one of the semi-circular natural cliff walls, walking on top of them, where the snipers and sentries previously occupied. Courier picked up a .44 Marlin Carbine from the sniper he shot, and handed it to her. They sat behind a large boulder. He showed her quickly how to shoot it, to reload it, how to clear a jam. He gave her tips on things like wind variance, tactical reloading, and bracing for recoil. Most things she knew well, but listened anyways, thankful for the reminder. It was a rock of stability to hold onto compared to the coming chaos.

"-And you just do that process three times if it jams. It'll eject the bullets out, but it's better than the gun exploding in your face. You'd lose an eye that way, and neither one of us wants that to happen."

He looked at Waking Cloud. Understanding and alertness were in those greyish-blue eyes. But there was a hint of something else, too. The face expressed it, more than the eyes.

"You understand? Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"No, I understand, it is only..."

Waking Cloud looked away. She did not finish her sentence.

Courier cocked his helmet-clad head. Whatever his face showed, it never made it past the helmet.

"Only what?"

Waking Cloud looked back at where his face should have been, then looked away again.

"It is not well for one so young to know war so well. Please, when this is over, stay with us. Find peace."

Her eyes pleaded at him.

"We cannot bring your tribe back. We cannot undo the wrongs piled upon you. But if you stay, we can help you. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. Earlier, I had thought you delighted in the bloodshed. But I see now. You take no happiness in it at all. You mourn them, just like we-"

Courier stood up.

"I stay nowhere. I don't care how many traitors turn coat over to the NCR, my tribe isn't dead, and it isn't gone. This discussion is over."

He shoved the rifle roughly into her bosom, creating a soft gasp of pain.

"Now shut up and help me get rid of these bastards."

Courier started walking back to the other side, where he would find a suitable place to lay down, and begin the assault on the white legs.

Waking Cloud looked at the child. Sorrows should mourn the dead, not the living. That was their sacred duty.

And yet, looking at him, focused only on the killing of enemies his tribe no longer had, she felt that maybe his soul had died long ago, and his body just didn't remember he was supposed to die.

Maybe she should mourn for this child. Maybe she should try and find a way to stop all the madness. The land couldn't be worth the price of so much blood, could it?

But she was only one woman. She was a midwife to Sorrows, and she knew what lay within, and beyond her power. She took her rifle with humility, and copied what this lost child of the rangers did. If her tribe thought it best, The Ouslander thought it best, and The Burned Man thought it best, then what, indeed, did she truly know?

And so, even with Daniel's words playing again and again in her head, she took her newly-given rifle, and lay down, bringing the stock to her shoulder...

Palm-Without-Blood was always a shy girl. She preferred the arts and music to the foraging and studies of the other tribeswomen, who would often boast of hunts, both of beast and men. But whereas these things brought delight to her fellow tribeswomen, it did not to her. She did not hunt, finding the sight of blood to bring bile to her mouth. As such, she was an outcast. Her mother had understood her, and did not press her to hunt, but instead let her creativity to full bloom. She would make jewelry and art out of whichever materials the tribe found, and sometime her creativity lead itself to other things.

The totem they danced around tonight was one of these things.

No longer an outcast, providing an art-piece worthy for the gods to inhabit, Palm-Without-Blood felt true accomplishment, and threw herself whole-heartedly into the songs and dances of her people, rejoicing at finding a place at last in her tribe, after sixteen winters.

After one particularly long dance, she rested, drinking from the jug passed around, the Wahelo, the specially made sweet drink for celebrations like this, prepared by her mother. She threw her hair over her back, the tangles wet and slick from sweat. She hated the tangles she was forced to weave into her hair, but the tribe demanded it of all. They must do it if they were to be accepted into the War-God's favorite tribe.

As she was resting, admiring the joy that dozens of her tribe shared today around the totem she had made, she was approached by a loincloth and sash-wearing man, his hair tied completely into only one tangle, and he was maybe only two or three winters older than her. Without anything said, he sat down next to her, and started staring at her.

"Uh, um… H-hello, there..." Palm-Without-Blood avoided eye contact.

This seemed to break the man out of his trance. He smiled, gesturing at her Wahelo jug.

"I have not had any Wahelo, yet. Could I drink after you?"

Oh! So that was what he wanted. So relieving. For a second I thought he was going to ask me to dance.

"Oh! Yes, yes, of course! My mother makes it special for every occasion really. We add smoked honey mesquite into it, that's what really gives it the special sort of 'Zing', you know?"

Get it together, Palms. Don't want the tribe to start calling you stranger, again.

The man smiled and closed his eyes, drinking deeply of the jug.

Slurp, slurp, slurp. "Ahhhh~"

He opened his eyes, wide, his eyebrows jumping up. The tan of his skin started flushing a bit.

"I, uh, forgive me. Only a short sun ago I got back from the hunt. Slept for a whole day. This is the first thing I'm drinking in a sun's throw."

He offered the jug back to her, but she pushed it back to him.

"It's okay, my mom makes me it whenever I ask. Drink as much as you need."

She smiled at him.

The man seemed stunned.

"She taught you how to make this?"

She nodded, and looked down at the ground.

"I'm not very good at it yet, but she keeps trying to teach me. I don't know if I'm very good at it yet. Kind of..." She whispered to herself. "Kind of awful at it, really. Fernenting is such a-"

The man set the jug down on the wood bench, and stood up, outstretching an arm towards her.

"Dance with me."

Her face became hot as she remembered it being in a long time.

'What?!'

"What?!"

She screeched, voice going hoarse halfway through.

'You blew it palms. Not attractive, not collected, keep it together!'

"Dance with me. You're one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen, you can make Wahelo, and you're the first girl that hasn't looked at me like I'm a weakling when I tell them how much I sleep. Please, honor me. Just one dance."

Palm-Without-Blood felt spirials in her eyes and fire in her face.

Was this happening? Really?

She tried collecting herself, and put her hand in his.

She smiled.

"I would love to."

The boy smiled back. The songs died down, as if in recognition of the special moment.

"Thank you. My name is-"

BTWOOOOOOOOOOOM

POP...THRACK

POP-THRACK

POP-POP-POP-POPAPOPAPOPAPOPAPOPA

BTWOOOOOOOOOOOM

eeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The earth was filled with screams. For no reason at all, the dirt was exploding out into the air, taking limbs of many of her tribe with it.

She heard screams and sounds of fire-guns, until she only heard a buzzing like a loud insect in her ear.

She was on the ground. Huh. When did that happen?

She felt someone shaking her. She looked over to the source of the discomfort, and found the same handsome man there, worry and fear in his eyes.

Don't look like that. You are strong. You could handle it, whatever it is.

Eventually, the hearing came back to her. Muffled, but there.

"-elp! The camp to the West! Run and get help! We're under attack!"

Adrenalin surged through her veins. The man dragged her up, and she found unsteady footing.

"With me! We have to go!"

Palm-Without-Blood looked around her. Many men and women of her tribe were firing guns and throwing weapons at the cliffs surrounding the camp, but not one of them were trying to go up the cliffs they were firing at. Why?

The head of a tribeswoman shooting a storm-drum at the cliffs had it's back pop open, and a few chunks of skull and some blood followed the bullet out of the hole. It was only a few scant feet from her, but she didn't have long to wonder what was going on.

"We'll be safe once we reach the river! Hurry!"

The boy she just met was dragging her arm away. She wasn't a fighter. He was. She should probably do as he says.

The voice that made up her thoughts were very distant. She didn't think about was she was going to do next. She just felt it. Barely a thought made it through her head. It was a bad dream, right? She'd wake up any second now, safe in her tent, and her mom would have some hot soup for her. Then she'd tell her to go find a man to settle with, she'd tell her about her dream, and they'd all laugh.

As he dragged her down the slope, she spotted a blood trail, and some weirdly misplaced dirt.

"Hey, Mr- ah, what was your name agai-"

Beep

BWA-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Suddenly, she felt the sky try and take her from the ground. It was terrifying. She didn't want the sky to take her. She wished and wished and wished to go back down, she didn't want to live in the sky, but the god of the sky wasn't listening.

She kept going further and further up.

Until, eventually, of course, she did start going back down. She saw as well as felt the river getting closer and closer and-

"I'd say that went smoothly enough."

The Courier finished putting the last body into the big pile, over some dried logs, of course, and took out his trusty rusty sword Gehenna.

Waking Cloud nodded, but said nothing.

"Mines sure do make for long cleanup, though. Think I might keep a leg or two for bear bait. Hopefully this big fire will have enough smoke to keep the cazadors far enough away until we're finished here."

The Courier flipped a switch, and the sword was on fire. He held it in the pile until he started hearing crackling sounds, and removed it, flicking a switch and then turning a dial, and it was just a regular rusted sword again.

"Would you mind carrying a bit of this stuff back to the Sorrows camp? Figure you guys need the weapons more than I do right now."

Once again, she nodded, but said nothing.

"Good. I don't have all week to kill these White Legs. I'm just scrounging whatever useful stuff I can from this place, and then I'm gone. War waits for nobody."

Courier walked through the Sorrow's camp, boots crunching the wet gravel below him, carrying a bag of guns.

He turned a corner, and saw a man covered in bandages, sitting at a fireplace, reading from a book.

The man looked up at him, and pointed across the fire, to the ground. A book rested there, the same as what the bandaged man held in his hands.

"Sit."

The Courier sat down and picked up the book, obeying him.

"Turn to Proverbs One Thirty-Seven."

The Courier took a bit of time to find the place, still not knowing where everything was. It took a solid two minutes. The man across from him did not stir, did not become disquieted, but just sat patiently as the Courier found the right words to turn to.

"Got it."

The Burned Man breathed deeply. "Good. Let's read it together, shall we?"

The Courier nodded. He knew what this meant. He would read and listen, and his elder would speak.

"By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion."

"We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof."

"For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion."

"How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"

"If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning."

"If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy."

"Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem; who said, Rase it, rase it, even to the foundation thereof."

"O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us."

"Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones."

The man looked at him, eyes tired beyond imagination seeming to hold a fire within them all of their own.

"Do you know what it means?"